Congenital Insensitivity
by JulietGivesUp
Summary: All his life, Matthew had continuously heard himself being labeled as 'a special child.' Autism, CIPA, and other disorders have worked itself throughout his life, building and wrecking him and his Papa Francis. He never asked to be born like this. He had never done anyone wrong to deserve such a cruel punishment. It was...human but everyone has their breaking point.
1. Prologue

**Salutations to one and all! I've always wanted to write a genre of this sort, so here I am trying my hand on it. I don't know much about my writing powers on tragedies and angst (although, I am quite a fan of them), but I do hope this one works out, if not well then I hope you at least have a good day/evening.**

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_"Mathieu."_

_"Oui, Papa?"_

_"Je t'aime, mon cher. Papa is so sorry. Always remember Papa loves you. Désolé Mathieu…"_

_"Euh? Papa, why are you crying?"_

Little Matthew had always been a respectful, considerate, introverted individual, even as a grown up. He was always polite to the guests whenever they visited him. He never asked for anything his Papa couldn't give, never complained about eating his food, and not once even cried when the scary doctors took his blood for samples.

For as long as the poor boy can remember, he was regularly under constant supervision and checkup. From the eyes of every person he's associated with, Matthew was a fragile individual that could break from even the slightest touch, sight, sound, and most dangerously; word. Due to this difficult predicament, children within his age group, including the parents nonetheless, seldom communicated with the toddler. Aside from the glassy eyed doctors, the intimidatingly cheerful nurses, and the needles, Papa was the only one Matthew could comfortably familiarize with and trust.

Papa Francis was the one and only person in the whole universe who could sympathize with his condition and inexhaustibly offer the greatest patience, care, and love. Papa Francis who would go out of his way getting punched and kicked at just for the sake of consoling the temperamental boy. Papa Francis who would stay up all night during the summers just to wipe the sweat off his little boy's forehead and make sure he wouldn't overheat and get hyperthermia. And most of all, it was Papa Francis who cried and shed his tears for him. When he was sad, rejected, angry, and even when he was happy, enlightened, or laughing, Papa always cried for him.

All his life, Matthew had continuously heard himself labeled as 'a special child.' He'd asked them what kind of special he was, whether he was sporty special, artistic special, beautiful special, intelligent special, or perhaps even remarkably special. The nurses would just sport their jaded smiles and tell him that he was the unique type of special. Outside the brightly painted rooms and optimistic posters that dotted every single corner of the clinics, he did not hear their more technical terms for their 'special child' and his 'unique circumstances.'

He was barely two years of age, a mere toddler, when Papa Francis received the most devastating news; his son diagnosed with autism and an incredibly rare case of CIPA. That night of the shocking news, unbeknownst to cherub-faced baby Matthew, his loving father was cradling his sleeping form, weeping and praying for the hardships that will befall their lives in the forthcoming future.

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**Author's Notes:**

**1. How was it? Too much? Too little? Constructive criticism would be quite helpful, but please do be polite about it.**

**2. The story was generally meant to be a one-shot, but it's very interesting to write and research about. I'd like to write more but I'm afraid that the plot would be too overused or just outright boring for the reader's tastes since there are quite a lot of other disorder related fanfics out there, especially on Canada. Plus I have another story to get back to. I don't know?**

**3. One more thing, most of you probably know what autism is but not CIPA. CIPA stands for Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. It's a rare disorder in which the patient doesn't feel pain, heat, or cold because of their unusual nervous system. The anhidrosis makes it a bit more complicated because the bodies are not subjected to feeling hot or cold, thus it can overheat and vice-versa. It's a sad case and the treatments for it don't always work.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	2. Sandbox

**Thank you guys so much for reading. I didn't think I'd receive positive reviews from you all. I truly appreciate it. Anyways, I would be honored to continue this project, as I continue with another fic (which is by the way stalling everything I do! Can't think of any good ideas).**

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_"Hmm?"_

_"Silly Ms. Barren. Matthew asked you what kind of special he was. You and the doctors always call Matthew that, so Matthew want to know what kind."_

_"Kind?"_

_"Yes, what kind of special is Matthew?"_

_"Hmm...I suppose you are...unique, Mattie. Now, it's time for your checkup. Be good alright?"_

In the summer of his fifth birthday Matthew realized that he and everything he was, was not like everybody at all. With the front door conveniently unlocked and Papa sleeping off his last night's shift, it was the perfect opportunity for the child to explore the enormous world outside. At a young age, Matthew was not able to fathom the risk one was willing to take to step out in the open, exposed to the natural dangers and the extremity of society's actions.

He'd been told countless times by Papa Francis that the outside world was a foul, dangerous place. Normally, the young boy would think nothing more of it and submit to his father's advice, however the children giggling merrily and the burst of warm July air seduced him to take a foot out and another into the ever fearless part of humanity.

Matthew walked out carefully, counting each pitter patters of his steps. Barefoot and all, the blonde angel gawked in awe at everything in sight. Expensive, shiny cars drove by with the tops down revealing brunettes and honey colored hair like him talking excitedly. Groups of friends were circling the streets riding what appeared to be a metal contraption with rotating circles. Some kids were climbing up a tree to retrieve rosy apples and pears. From the corner of his eye was a granny, courteously sitting on a bench throwing bread crumbs for the grateful birds.

Matthew longed to feed the winged animals too but he was reminded of another scene far better than attracting birds.

Now, it was definitely not the first time Matthew had been outside. Papa made sure to take him out once in a while, however the look of panic and anxiety cleverly hidden on his father's face generated a mildly uncomfortable atmosphere. The two had walked to the park and back enough times for Matthew to remember the route. Granted, it was some of a long walk but nevertheless, it felt wonderful for his little legs to be walking so gaily. If he had been a bit more attentive to himself and a little less on his surroundings, the boy still wouldn't have noticed the rise in his body temperature and his labored breathing.

He ran excitedly to a band of kids playing in the sandbox. They all looked so happy and carefree that Matthew wanted to join in also. He eagerly snatched the plastic shovel from a little girl and used it to scoop up sand.

"Play, play, play!" Matthew yelled flailing sprays of sand everywhere. The girl cried in surprise and pushed him away. Matthew fell with a quick thud as the other kids scampered out of the sand box, towards their parents. Sand filled the poor boy's mouth as he laid facedown by himself.

It was a matter of time until the adults started noticing the chaos involving the troublesome child. They held onto their kids protectively, gazing at the blonde boy with contempt. In fact, a crowd of parents gathered to see the commotion but no one thought of helping the child. Soon they began to whisper.

"Hey, isn't that Francis' boy?" a sharp-nosed parent started.

"Yes, I believe so. What is it doing around here?"

"It obviously doesn't belong here. Where is its father?"

A sneer. "Perhaps he finally got sick of it and left it to rot in the streets."

A look of disgust. "Hmph! I can understand why, but it is absolutely undignified to leave that filth wandering in the streets with our children out and about."

Matthew laid in the park listening to the people gossip. He thought he heard someone mention his Papa but what on earth were they talking about? Who was this it person they were sputtering bad things about? He must be a horrible person no – monster! – to be so loathed upon. Maybe the monster was gruesome, or was big and slimy, or even worse, what if it had great, jagged teeth to chomp him up with. The boy crawled up at the frightening thoughts of the monster; he wanted to get away from there as far as possible. Papa Francis was right, the world was a scary place!

Just as he was about to stand up, he was knocked down once more by a big fellow, about the age of nine.

"You took my little sister's shovel, punk. Give it back!" the boy roared. The boy started grabbing the plastic shovel that Matthew was still holding. Matthew did not want to let go. It was his shovel! He wasn't going let anyone have it! It was his! It wasn't fair! Matthew threw a tantrum; kicking and biting at his opponent.

Despite that, the boy managed to take the shovel away from him. The older boy laughed at his success and all in spite, scooped up a pile of sand and cruelly poured it over the toddler's head. It was a horrible scene as grains of sand got into Matthew's eyes, nose, and mouth. It was even more horrifying that the people surrounding the scene did nothing but grimace and scowl. Not a single one minded the poor boy wiping the sand off his shirt in fear that his Papa would throw a fit at the state of his clothes. No one minded the fact that Matthew's labored breathing started into hyperventilation. They all just stared.

"Mon dieu! What has happen to you Mathieu?"

Matthew looked fearfully up at the familiar voice. Pushing his way into the crowd was his Papa. Oh, what would he say now? Papa would be so mad that his clothes were all sandy and dirty! Matthew swatted the sand away in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. He didn't want to get in trouble.

In less than a second, the child found himself encased in his father's arms. His wide, lavender eyes were getting blurry from the sand, he assumed, and now sticky sweat was trickling from his eyes. The crowd of people had dispersed long ago leaving him and Papa sitting in the little sandbox. Papa Francis was stroking his back, eyes also trickling with salty sweat.

Oh, that just won't do! Matthew raised his little hands to wipe the sweat off Papa's handsome face. This only caused into an influx of tears.

Papa was openly crying now, hugging little Matthew tighter than ever. Matthew felt bad for making his Papa act this way. He didn't mean it. If he had known it would end so badly like this, he would have never done it. He should have listened to Papa Francis. So be it, he wasn't going to do something like this ever again. He wasn't going to go outside anymore. If it would stop Papa from crying like this then he would do it.

"Oh Mathieu, what on earth caused you to do this? I told you not to go outside. Look at you now! Mon chou…"

"Désolé, Papa. Mathieu… won't…do it…again. He is…sorry," the exhausted boy mumbled through his father's shirt. He felt himself sink into his Papa Francis' shoulder, thoroughly drained.

"Mathieu? Baby? Are you alright?" Francis shook his little boy awake but failed to get a response. He pressed his hand against the boy's forehead and was horrified to discover that it was sweltering. In addition to that, Matthew was now desperately gasping for breath. Cheeks bright pink and his body dangerously limp, the boy was slipping into unconsciousness.

Terrified for the sake of his son, Francis made a sprint to his car. There wasn't enough time to sit and wait for the ambulance. It was all up to him to save his boy.

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**Author's Notes:**

**1. I apologize for the sadness of this story, but I decided that this is where I want to go with it. No, Matthew's conflict won't only be external, nor will it always include people condemning him. That being said, it also isn't the end of Mattie's problems. I have faith in Papa Francis though. Do you?**

**2. Once again, thank you all for reading. I'm still open for any constructive criticism. Please tell me where I can improve on my writing. I realize it's not as good as many out there, but I do try to put some heart into it. Good day!**


	3. Twin to Twin

**I feel like this chapter's not written as well as I would have liked. It also came out pretty long.**

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_"Can you feel them moving, Francis?"_

_"Oui! I think Alfred's kicking Mathieu, or the other way around?"_

_"Haha. Can you just imagine it? In four months, you'll be a father and I'll be a mother... I don't think I can handle even the thought of it."_

_"Don't worry, mon chérie. It will all be fantastic with you, me, Alfred, and Mathieu as one happy family..."_

At age twenty-one, Francis Bonnefoy had everything the world could possibly offer to a wealthy, young man. He was the outstanding heir to one of Europe's most prosperous companies, had favorable social connections with every high-class family throughout the globe, enjoyed all the luxuries imaginable, not to mention have the most gorgeous woman a man could ever hope of being with. Indeed, the charismatic Frenchman had it all.

Growing up in his ever demanding household, Francis was lavished with his parents' love, moral support, and economic financing. Francis' parents had high hopes for their son and taught him everything in order to run the family corporation from business economics to social negotiating. Even from all this, Francis did not grow up spoiled as some would immediately conclude from his class and background. He became the perfect French gentleman, charismatic and all in all very charming. Although, he couldn't deny being somewhat of a chick magnet. Francis had been through more women in his life than he could possibly keep count. Some were serious, others were just for fun. Why not? He was a rich bachelor. There was time and money to kill. The spoils and riches of the worlds was his for the taking.

It was in the spring during his business trip, that Mr. Bonnefoy found what he deemed the perfect woman for him. The lady was born from an aristocratic family and was, like him, heir to the family's business and wealth. She had the air of importance, poise, and sophistication that no other woman possessed. Her pale, blonde hair never failed to look less than presentable. Rich, creamy white skin enhanced her more subtle features making her look like she came out from a painting. But her eyes – her eyes were one of the most wonderful shades of hazel no priceless gemstone could ever hope to compare to. However, it wasn't those traits that attributed to the young man's interest. No, those were merely an added blessing to her charm.

The maiden was a lovely being; compassionate and gentle as any sweet music was for the ears. Despite what any envious persons would say about her, the lady was kind, sweet, and most importantly loving to those who would approach her. Not only that, but she had ambition. She was adventurous, straightforward, and was also very talented when it came to business. One can appreciate that this would attract the heart of any man, wealthy or not.

Francis' parents were overjoyed to see their son bring home such a prize. The couple loved each other dearly, so much so to the point that they formed twins from their love. In hearing this, Francis and his early bride rejoiced and thanked the heavens. Their families were uncertain about having children so prematurely (and also just at the start of their new lives together) they whole-heartedly did their best to support their upcoming father was aimed on loving and granting his two sons everything he could possibly offer them. During the warm summer nights, Francis would kiss and caress his wife's belly while animatedly talking to the twins about his plans of taking them out to run, and swim, and play. He'd pecked his wife's forehead lovingly, as they both excitedly readied the nursery that would soon house their beloved boys. Oh, the couple could just imagine and anticipate the twins running around the house, their little feet scampering noisily chasing each other.

The enthusiastic father wanted the first boy to be named Alfred. He found it quite an amusing name and his wife did say that she wanted him to pick something simple and easy to remember. As for the second born, the couple compromised on naming him Matthew. Although Francis was persistent on spelling it M-A-T-H-I-E-U. The mother could do nothing but laugh at his husband's fussiness and agree with his antics. The name's perceived meaning was "gift of god." And indeed, the child was a gift from the heavens. No one would have imagined that fate had something different in store for the babies and their parents.

About twenty-six weeks into the pregnancy, the couple discovered that their beloved twins were both at great risks. The doctor stated that the two fetuses were sharing a single placenta, thus the donor twin who supplied blood to the recipient twin could possibly die from a decrease of blood volume. Or vice-versa in which, the recipient twin could die from the excess amount of blood which can strain it's heart. Either way, it would have been an amazing feat – a miracle even, for the two to come out alive.

The mother, keen on saving her boys, did everything and anything she could to keep them both healthy. She prayed away the days, read countless books on raising kids, inquired and tested every remedy in the Earth no matter how exotic they may be, drank potions, medicines, cures, protein shakes – anything to counter this ailment fate was so insistent on impelling upon them. But if anything, she refused to use anything having to do with risking the immediate death of her child. Fetoscopic laser ablation had always been an alternative to separate the two, but she bared her teeth against anyone who would even dare propose such things. Francis was nonetheless loyal to his love; comforting and reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.

The day of the twins' birth was both tragic and miraculous. Much to their horror, the first fetus who was also the recipient twin, died so close in attaining birth. It was later confirmed that Alfred perished from heart failure inside the womb. His intake of blood and amniotic fluid was far too much for his own good. As for the other twin, it was a true phenomenon that the donor fetus had sustained itself well enough and made it through alive. The boy who survived, Matthew, was like a flicker of relief and joy to Francis. He was trembling at the sight of his living, and healthy boy. Though he felt unmeasurable pity for the other, he was holding his son. He was holding his one and only boy. Francis remembered crying every day from that day on.

Unlike his grateful husband, the lady of his dreams was miserable and depress. She refused to hold, let alone see the child that she had successfully brought into the world. She locked herself in her room rejecting food, moaning and weeping for her lost child. All day the young woman sat in her chair tears streaming down her once cheery face. She blamed herself for not doing enough for her son. It was all her fault why the other couldn't and hadn't made it. Her health was deteriorating by and by, madness sweeping her into mournful screams in which Francis rushed to her bedroom at night consoling her with a crying baby in his arms. The damsel who was once so lively and perfect was now driven to insanity; wrecking and shattering paintings and furniture, and most importantly his husband's heart.

It was only a matter of time until she was shipped to a mental asylum far, far away to lament her loss and insanity by herself.

The maiden's family looked down on Francis and the boy. They blamed the miscarriage and the boy for their only heir's lunacy, accusing the baby for all the hapless fortunes it caused to the failing business. As humans, it's normal for people to look for a scapegoat. In a short matter of time, her company ceased away into bankruptcy and debt. The Bonnefoys, fearing the same fate for their company, urged Francis to carry on and take over the corporation. With the newborn baby aside, they argued that this wasn't a suitable excuse for putting off his pre-destined career and persuaded that they boy could be taken care of by a hired nanny. Francis had no choice but to obey his parent's wishes but demanded not to be separated from his angel and have ample amounts of time to spend with him. They were a bit hesitant to comply with such terms (after all, they expected more than 'the best' from their son running a multi-million company), but they did not want to test Francis' resolution. It was agreed that Matthew was to stay in the Bonnefoy's estate living amongst his grandparents.

Balancing his job as the head of the company and coming home everyday to baby Matthew was a tough and exhausting job for the Frenchman. Nevertheless, he strived to be there to hold and tuck the boy every night, singing an occasional lullaby to the baby during one of those sleepless nights a parent without a nanny have to endure. But he insisted on taking care of Matthew even when help was offered. Francis continued planning future vacations and leisure activities with his son while keeping up with the merciless meetings and persistent phone calls. He always dismissed the maids and Matthew's nannies right when he got home so he could attend to the child's whims entirely whenever he called for one. The entire household was amazed and idolized Francis' commitment to the young master and wondered how on earth the man could possibly uphold such a standing.

One of the few things that struck Francis odd, however, was Matthew's lack of development; both socially and mentally. The toddler never once babbled or even cooed a "papa" no matter how many times he enforced words on him. Sometimes Francis would find the boy lying by himself in the middle of the room staring blankly up at the rotating ceiling fan, other times the maids would report of him in the laundry area idly watching the clothes spinning around from the clear glass. Not only that but the blonde, little tot never bothered to look at him straight in the eye, the reason for why people were unable to distinguish his eye color. Francis had an especially hard time to get the boy to even look at him with a smile on his face. And then there was the bear.

It was an odd little thing, white and furry, and most certainly delightful. Ever since the toddler caste his sight on it, he never left it unguarded. The stuffed white bear hid and was found all over the house in peculiar places. It even went as far as to reach the maids' chambers and the chef's oven. Matthew would throw a huge tantrum; kicking and biting the person who dared touch his beloved Kumajirou, as it was later named.

It wasn't until the summer, a typical warm day without a single breeze blowing, that Francis began to worry for his son's health. The boy was outside with the maid enjoying the weather when he suddenly began hyperventilating. The maid, seeing this panicked and rushed him into the house where he fainted, unconscious. Francis came home that evening terrified at the sight of his beloved son, surrounded by all the maids and the family doctor looking over for the cause of his ailment.

After countless tests and visits to many distinguished pediatricians, it was confirmed that the boy was indeed diagnosed with autism and CIPA. Upon hearing this, the Bonnefoys insisted and even forced arguments that it was not so. Matthew didn't display most of the symptoms associating with the disorders, thus it wasn't possible for him to have them, and at such a young age, there was no doubt that he could change as he develops. They had more reasons dealing with the matter and shunned away all the experts speaking for their grandson that he was perfectly normal.

Despite all this, the issue about Matthew's condition spread like wildfire. Everywhere, businessmen and agents gossiped about the young master's disability and how it was such a heavy burden for the head of the corporation. The talk grew so much so, that Matthew's grandparents would hide him away into rooms whenever their friends or company came to visit the house. They were undoubtedly ashamed and would hurriedly change the subject whenever it mentioned something (concerned or scorned) about their grandson. Francis witnessed all of these and grew furious with his own flesh and blood for being humiliated by their own grandchild.

"Francis, my son, the solution to all this is very simple. You merely need to send the boy away. Far, far away into one of those mental institutions in Asia, maybe even Japan! He can join his mother in recovery and I'm sure they'll take better care of him there and the best part is that you can focus on your work without any hassle from the little one," his father implored him one day, accompanied with his mother.

"How dare you suggest such a thing for your own grandson! Are your pride and social lives honestly more important than my little boy who never dreamed for this misfortune to come to him in the first place. Even now, I don't understand why you're not happy about the fact that he miraculously lived. You grieve for the other, but do not see the gift god has left you instead," Francis shouted with rage and did whatever he could to bring some light to his family's strong judgement.

"That boy, you call a son, has no promise; no future. All he is and will make is trouble and bring many more misfortunes to its father. And haven't you once thought of us? The father and mother who raised you, cared for you, made you the successful man you are now with all the riches in the world at your whim. Do you not care that we are being made fools of because of that retarded child's being?"

Francis was about to lose it, launching himself with anger at his own father, if it wasn't for his mother clinging and crying onto his neck. In the other room of the house, Matthew's wails could be heard amongst the maids and butlers attempts to console the child. His mother's cries mixed in with the boy's drove him crazy. His father, flushed with disgrace and frustration, glared at him expectantly, as if awaiting his son to make a rational decision.

With a deep breath and a reckless ambition, Francis eerily calmed and unlaced his weeping mother's arms from his neck. He strolled into his chambers, calling the maids every now and then ordering to fetch things. His movements could be heard downstairs in the family room where his parents were waiting in anticipation. The blonde master of the house strolled down the sophisticated staircase carrying a sleeping Matthew in his arms and behind him was one of the house maids who carried two very large suitcases.

The couple's faces lit up hopefully, assessing the maid to the door and even calling the chauffeur to fetch the car. Mrs. Bonnefoy called on one of the maids to get into the black sedan and take the boy all the way to the other side of the world and make sure he never came back. The woman, with promises of money and more, did as she was instructed and tried to get Matthew, however Francis refused to let go and with one menacing look, she backed away instantly.

Mr. Bonnefoy smiled and attempted to take the boy. "Where are you sending him off to, dear?"

Francis snatched Matthew who was still sleeping and placed him in his car seat. "We're going to the nearest airport. I don't want my son growing up in this kind of environment with people like you looking down on him like this. He doesn't deserve to be treated in such a way, and as his father, I am not going to tolerate it."

"But the company! You can't-"

The door slammed shut and locked with their baggage stored in the back.

"So be it, if you don't accept and love him as he is, then with all due respect, please do not consider me the heir of the company you fancy so much." And with this he signaled the hesitant driver to go. Francis Bonnefoy didn't bother to look back at his mother; running to catch up to them in vain, begging for his son to come back to the life he was meant to live in - without the cursed boy.

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**Author's Notes:**

**1. Thank you once again for your comments. I am considering them into the plot and I will try to include more things for future chapters. If you don't mind, I'm actually looking for a person who can translate words into French. I'm taking classes soon but for now, I only know a handful of phrases. I don't trust Google Translator.**

**2. Anyways, the complication with the twins' birth is a real thing called Twin-to-Twin Transfusion. As briefly explained, two fetuses share one placenta and have problems proportioning blood supply and other nutrients. It's rare for the twins to be born healthy, or even be born at all. In Matthew's case, it's extremely rare for the donor twin to live since it gets much less of the supply.**


	4. Five Senses

**I'm really getting into this story and the fact that it only took me a week to come up with this and write it is proof. Wow, in contrast that sounds really pathetic of me. Anyways, I believe this is my last one for a while. School is only in two weeks and I'm anticipating it to be really busy. Perhaps I can squeeze in one or two more chapters until then.**

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_"Alright boys and girls. Today, we will be learning about the five senses. Who would like to name one?"_

_"The sense of smell!"_

_"Sense of taste!"_

_"Sense of hearing!"_

_"The sense of sight!"_

_"Yes Matthew, what is the last one?"_

_"Sense of pain?"_

_"Err...I'm afraid that's incorrect. It's actually the sense of touch, but I suppose one can argue that..."_

Pain.

It was… an incomprehensible matter for the six-year old boy, for not only was it something difficult to understand, but he was immune to feel. Immune to feel the shock and burn when a careless hand grazes something on the stove or the quick and sharp sting one could easily get in a daily bases cutting vegetables or even something as simple as reading a book. Immune to feel the freezing, icy chill of the wind biting on one's cheeks or that horrible, prickly feeling when one stays out, bathed and exposed to the ruthless summer sun.

As one of the nurses who was describing these experiences as best as she could had said, Matthew was one lucky kid to be 'excused' from feeling so much…well, feelings. That day, Matthew just shrugged. He wouldn't know how it would feel to feel such things in the first place so he just nodded his little, blond head like a good boy.

Many, many times (so much so that Matthew couldn't possibly keep count) people have asked him common acts and questions of concern such as, for example; 'are you alright?' or 'where does it hurt?' or 'are you in pain?' All in which, the quite, little boy would bob his head up and down, stumped on what would be the appropriate thing to reply. He couldn't really say. Was he alright? Where does it hurt? Was he in pain? Thankfully just after those questions were asked, Papa would come running to the rescue and answer them for him. Papa Francis knew everything, after all.

Even so, Matthew couldn't help and be curious. He was born with it after all. At least the person up there was kind enough to let him keep that trait. Everyone said it was human, whether a sinful one or not, at least it was human. So one day, while sitting idly on one of the clinics' table with the nurse examining him and taking records, an innocent, harmless question escaped Matthew's lips, "What is pain?"

The nurse flinched from her usual grin and almost dropped the clipboard she was holding because of the unexpected subject. Seeing the twinkly eyed boy waiting persistently for an answer, she expertly recovered back to her customary façade. She smiled modestly and patted Matthew's head.

"That's quite a subjective topic to start. Hmm…let's see. Pain is when something hurts – well, how should I put it…?" she paused converting her thoughts in a proper way in which it could make sense to a patient who couldn't fathom simple words such as hurt and feel.

"Well…you can sense pressure, isn't that right Matthew?" In which the child nodded at familiarly.

"Okay, imagine that someone like your Papa, for example, is hugging you so tightly that it's very uncomfortable; you can hardly breathe, and he won't ever let go of you. It's hard to explain but I suppose it's sort of like that."

Matthew frowned. "But Papa wouldn't do something like that to Matthew. Papa is nice."

"Yes, well of course your Papa is a very nice man and he wouldn't… okay let me express it another way," the nurse mumbled. "Let's say you were eating candy and you happen to come across an unpleasant flavor. Think of something unbearably bitter or spicy if you will and then imagine that flavor gets worse and worse-"

"That wouldn't happen," Matthew cut off. "Papa would make it go away. Papa is nice."

The nurse let out an exasperated sigh, her patience slowly running out from the curious, little creature in her office. "In the case, that your Papa isn't there, Matthew!"

Matthew blinked once. Twice. "Why won't he be there? Papa is nice."

The nurse's light and happy expression was long gone and replaced with a calm, eerie smile. "You just don't get it do you, you little shi-," once again she stopped herself and stared at the boy long and hard before continuing. "Okay, you wanna know what pain is? Pain is what you feel when you come home from your godforsaken job and witness your husband shamefully in bed with another woman! Pain is when you smell the rancid stank of alcohol radiating on the furniture of your two room apartment and the sick scent of perfume on your husband's collar every night! Pain is when you hear your own voice dry and hoarse from countering all the accusations being thrown at you and the constant banging of the door from the landlady demanding for the apartment's rent. Pain is when all you can taste is cheap canned food for dinner every night and the bitterness of your tears when you can't stop them from falling down. Pain is something you don't like – something you hate very much, something you can get rid of to make you feel better. So you see, dear Matthew, I can't quite explain it anymore since I've gotten rid of it a long time ago and never felt something like that ever again…"

The nurse ended with a satisfied sigh and prepared the needles for the boy's weekly checkup. As she was inserting the needles into her patient's arm, Matthew blinked once. Twice. And grinned.

"So are you unique too? Are you like Matthew?"

The cute, violet-eyed boy left the clinic that day holding a grape flavored lollipop on one hand and intertwined the other with his father's much larger hand. He never saw that nurse ever again, although he always did like her. She was the only one to ever put up with him for that along and mostly, if not always, answered all his questions honestly. But no matter. At least he came home with two things on his little, blond head.

One; that pain is something you don't like and two; pain is something you can get rid of to make you feel better.

If that's the case, and if the doctors were telling the truth that he could not feel 'pain', does that mean Matthew was 'better' in the first place? After all, if you get rid of the pain, then you were inclined to feel better. Was it logical to conclude and to respond that he was alright? Matthew still didn't know, because if that is so, then that would make everyone (including Papa Francis) weird and abnormal, thus making Matthew the only normal one in the world. However, wasn't being unique the opposite of normal?

How confusing. Being human was so complicated.

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**Author's Notes:**

**1. I don't really have much to say, except to ask you (the reader) a question, not for the sake of monopolizing reviews but to have a wide variety of answers for the question; Describe your definition of pain? Physical or emotional, either one works. I want to incorporate these diverse ideas of what it means to be in pain or what pain itself is for the future chapters. Please explain your response and examples as if you're explaining it to someone like Matthew. Thank you!**


	5. Trial and Error

**Hey guys, it's been a while. A long while in fact... School's been busy and I almost regret taking my hard classes because I don't have time to write or update regularly. Nevertheless, I'll try keep at this story and try to write the next chapter by December. Thank you very much for reading!**

* * *

_"I am very sorry to say this to you Mr. Bonnefoy, but you must take better care of your son! I understand how heavy the responsibilities are for raising a son like... well, like Matthew but you must never forget that he is a danger to himself! This accident is very troubling and it will be marked down on a permanent record. If this continues, we'll have to question your liability for Matthew.."  
_

Matthew's curiosity lingered after that fateful day.

His favorite nurse was replaced with a different one after each checkup. They shifted weekly but it was random each time. One week he would be with a pretty brunette lady, the next she was exchanged for a twitchy old woman in her late-forties with a mild distaste for children and smelled strongly of smoke.

The week certainly brought along a new specimen of care givers, that was for sure. Either way, none of them said a word to him. They would especially rush his checkup, busying themselves with needless filing until Matthew's doctor made his rounds.

Now, Matthew's doctor was a whole _different_ account. A tale to be told some other time, perhaps.

Neglected his daily dose of what he now labeled as "science" from the clinic, the only person left to interrogate was Papa Francis. Then again, he felt horrible asking questions that made Papa shake his head and frown. Papa would say (his voice deep and stern), "_Mon trésor_, pain and hurting are trivial, little things you needn't worry about. Hush now Mathieu, Papa will take care of it" and Papa would wrap Matthew in his arms, salvaging a quick nap before his nightshift at the bar.

The little boy would be wide awake the entire time, either gazing blankly into space absorbed in the mechanics of his own mind or snuggling closer to his father's musky, yet comfortable scent. Matthew just loved how Papa's prickly chin brushed against his cheek as he was kissed on the forehead. Holding his father's face, Matthew examined his features and compared them to his own reflection in a little, handheld mirror.

In many ways, they were strikingly similar – as genetics and such would have it, of course. Matthew took pride in inheriting Papa's looks and did his best to groom himself up like Papa would in the morning. He even decided upon himself that he would grow out his hair, nice and silky, like Papa's. And when prickly, little hairs on his chin sprouted out, Matthew decided he would keep that too and not wash it away with foamy whip cream like the men in those tv commercials… but that was beside the point.

It was evident the two possessed the same wavy blonde hair (Matthew's was a shade or two darker), same perfect nose, same mouth, same shape of lips, same expressive eyes – only Papa's was as blue as the sky in early May, while Matthew's as lavender as the heavens in cloudy November. Heck, they both even have the same dark, weary rings under their eyes. Papa Francis acquired them from his tiresome working schedule as an elementary school janitor by day and a bartender by night.

Matthew sulked at the very thought of his father's jobs. He thought his Papa was much better than serving and cleaning up after people. That was a _servant's_ job and Papa was certainly no servant.

Papa Francis could only muster up a smile the day he applied for the job as the school's custodian. Chuckling to himself while he mopped floors, Francis mused at his ironic situation. From presiding a top corporation and suddenly reduced to a career such as this one. He never dreamed in a million years that he would be wheeling trash bags from room to room or on his knees scrubbing toilets to make minimum wage. All those years growing up in a sheltered home, leaving all the cleaning and maintaining to his maids and butlers. Life could be damned odd sometimes. Still, it was necessary to provide for Matthew's medications and weekly therapies. Treating disorders was not cheap, mind you, but it was handy that Matthew was granted Canadian citizenship and healthcare wasn't _too_ much of a hassle.

Now as for the bags under Matthew's eyes, it was a bad case of insomnia that kept him up every hour of the night. Heaven knows how hard it was for the child to actually get some sleep. Occasional thirty minute naps were god-sent, but the faintest sound or a slightest shift on the bed, and he would instantly wake. Francis was uncomfortable having resorted to drugging his son with Tylenol or sleep inducing medicine just to get him to rest.

…But again, that was beside the point.

As a scientist, Matthew asked a lot of questions and by his self-proclaimed title, he was going to get answers.

_Step 1 of the Scientific Method: State the problem using a question, based from observations._

_Step 2 of the Scientific Method: Form a hypothesis; a possible solution to the problem. A prediction of sorts. _

He'd already executed steps one and two many, many times so it was on to _Step 3: Test the hypothesis and determine the independent and dependent variables._

_Independent Variable: People in the telly from different channels. _

_Dependent Variable: Their interpretations and reactions to pain. _

_Step 4: Plan the experiment._

That was easy. As Papa Francis slipped onto the bathroom to get ready for work, the little boy sneaked out to the living room where the television was.

_Step 5: Follow procedures. Collect data._

Turning the volume down as to not disturb Papa, Matthew infected his curious, little, blonde head with flashing images and moving pictures of bittersweet humanity, also known as _crap telly_.

There was a wide range of channels displaying many conceptions of…physical and emotional instability from what the boy could infer.

There was a movie playing on one of the channels that Matthew had a feeling Papa would not approve of him watching. It was about a group of goofy men who pulled colorful stunts that would cause them to scream out in obvious agony. Fingers were slammed between doors, a taser tapped the skin causing them to jolt in shock, falling off of chairs, roofs, bridges; all were done intentionally. Their faces were contorted into excruciating expressions, their skin in shades of pink to bruised purple as the audience and their friends _laughed_. What intrigued Matthew the most was how the victim joined in and laughing merrily along with the others.

In another show a stunning, young woman was smiling gaily, showcasing her before and after body. Before her one hundred and fifty pound weight loss, the narrator explained the rigorous steps she took looking the way she was now. She underwent limiting her diet to low calorie shakes three times a day (no more no less), exercised on hours end at the gym with her trainer screaming at her face, at one point required liposuction at her legs and arms, took diet pills, and regularly visited the salon for pampering.

In one of her interviews, she boasted taking laxatives to "cleanse" her stomach and having not consumed anything but water for three days straight. "Beauty from Pain" the logo said. The woman was pleased with the results to say the least, sneering at her old pictures. The big grins she and tv casts had plastered on convinced Matthew.

_Step 6: Analyze Data._

He wondered if his old nurse lied about pain. The people in the screen were obviously giddy about pain and were more than happy with the results. Was he really missing out that much?

Matthew suddenly felt like an outcast.

Matthew never knew that the world is filled with masochistic people.

_Step 7: Make a Conclusion._

Frowning, Matthew flipped to the next page of his notebook where he had been collecting his observations. From the bathroom, he could hear Papá humming a tune in the shower.

Matthew wrote:

_CoNCLUsioNs:_

_PeepLe iN dA teli are sAd. Day Are hurt. Day Are peyN. Day hAv bAndAijes oN der fiNgers. Day Are Krying. But Day Are Day Are hAPier thaN MATCHOO. Beuti from peyN?_

Matthew was frustrated. He was back to square one. It was just so complicated but he was itching to know everything all at once. His gaze drifted to Papa's adult books on the bookshelf by his most prized wines. They were placed between the books for support and arranged in a way that the wine bottles were the first thing you saw when you entered the living room. Papa owned many books but he refused to share them with Matthew.

"Perhaps when you're older," he chuckled.

Beneath Papa's adult books was thick book labeled 'dictionary' in bold. He heard from somewhere that it contained the meanings of words or something like that. Matthew listened to Papa's shower for a moment before dragging a stool towards the bookshelf.

He climbed onto the tall chair, yet he found that he still could not reach the dictionary. His arms were outstretched towards the binding of the book, the stool wobbling dangerously underneath him. He was almost there. Matthew could just touch the cover of the book. Just a little closer. Matthew was on his tippy-toes now. He carefully slipped the book out from the wine when the chair toppled over bumping the shelf in the process. Matthew fell with a dull thud.

The forced of the stool shook the shelf and one by one, the wine bottles shattered onto the wooden floor. The boy stared wide-eyed as his father's bottles crashed beside him, the broken glass cutting into his skin from the floor's impact. Blood mixed in with wine. Odorous, glistening liquid engulfed Matthew, his clothes soaked in the deep scarlet and made it appeared as though he had a gushing bloody wound. And of course the strong smell of wine infiltrated dear Matthew's nose making him feel tipsy and intoxicated as if he had drank.

Above all, he couldn't move. Nothing hurt; no pain, but Matthew was terrified. Something felt wrong, something was out of place within him.

The boy's blood ran cold as he heard the tap being turned off, the pitter-patter of the water droplets suddenly inaudible, the shower curtain screeched open, and the doorknob squeaking as it was being turned.

"Merde!"

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**Author's Notes:**

**1. If you couldn't decipher Matthew's writing, here it is: _"People in the telly are sad. They are hurt. They are pain. They have bandages on their fingers. They are crying. But they are happier than Matthew. Beauty from pain?"_  
**

**2. Please look forward to the next chapter. A new entity will be introduced into the story and I'll make sure to make it a certainly interesting chapter. Titled: Optical Illusions.  
**


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